


My Heart's An Autoclave

by thepointoftheneedle



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, F/M, Fluff, Smut, Writer Jughead Jones, psychologist Betty Cooper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25086412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointoftheneedle/pseuds/thepointoftheneedle
Summary: It's an AU that stretches from college into jobs and adult life.  Jughead and Betty keep missing each other.  Until they don't. There is some anxiety, some smut and some angst but you know you can trust me to wrap things up, right?
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 64
Kudos: 110
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	1. You ought to head for the exits, the sooner the better

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the song, My Heart's An Autoclave by The Mountain Goats. It's one that means a lot to me so this got a little longer than I anticipated. An autoclave is a machine used by scientists to sterilise equipment using high temperature and high pressure. The thing that's amazing is that apparently there are certain life forms that not only tolerate but actually seem to thrive under those conditions. Hope for us all!  
> Here is a bit of the lyric.
> 
> My Heart’s An Autoclave
> 
> Hand me your hand, let me look in your eyes  
> As my last chance to feel human begins to vaporize  
> Maybe it’s the heat in here, maybe it’s the pressure  
> You ought to head for the exits, the sooner the better
> 
> I am this great, unstable mass of blood and foam  
> And no one in her right mind would make my home her home  
> My heart’s an autoclave  
> My heart’s an autoclave
> 
> When I try to open up to you I get completely lost  
> Houses swallowed by the earth, windows thick with frost  
> And I reach deep down within, but the pathways twist and turn  
> And there’s no light anywhere, and nothing left to burn

“You can’t just assume I’m free Veronica. I might be busy. I might have a date or something.”

Veronica’s trilling laughter at this comment was unsupportive and frankly insulting. Jug crossed his arms and put his chin on his chest, his brows knitting together in a scowl. 

“Oh stop sulking Torombolo. When did you last go on a date or at least a date that I didn’t arrange and then have to apologise for, with cupcakes, to some traumatised acquaintance?”

“I don’t traumatise them. I just don’t see the point in small talk. If I’m going to get to know someone we have to discuss the big stuff.”

“Yep, straight in with existential ennui and political theory. And then you’re surprised when you don’t get a second date.”

”I don’t want a second date with some frivolous, simpering ditz who cares about reality TV and does bizarre things to her eyebrows.”

“A heavier brow is a lewk Jug. Some girls aren’t naturally blessed like me, they have to help nature out a bit. Admittedly Lara might have taken it too far. Anyway, back to the subject at hand. _**Please**_ will you run the desk tonight so that I can go and hold back the rampaging hormones of sophomore girlhood that threaten to drown poor Archiekins whenever he plays a gig?”

“Fine. Whatever. You don’t want me on the mike though?”

“No darling, the world is not yet ready for more deep cuts of Leonard Cohen followed by political post punk yelling.”

“Hey, they’re all bangers. All killer no filler.”

“Well you play them on your little headphones then. Silent disco was invented just for you. Anyway I’ve got this cool senior year Psych major to come in. She’s going to talk about therapy and why it’s so important for good mental health and then she’ll get students to call in with issues and suggest strategies or resources or just, I don’t know, help them somehow. It’s a public service but I think it’ll also be really salaciously entertaining. Let’s hope they have lots of juicy sex problems. Two birds, one stone.”

Running the Barnard College radio station had seemed like an unlikely extra curricular for Veronica but she explained that if she could take the slightly leaky ship that was WBAR and steer it into a safe harbour of profitability and sustained ratings it would make for an impressive item on her resumé and something interesting to discuss at her Harvard Business School interview. When she learned that her boyfriend’s roommate had some technical experience at WBAR’s sister station at Columbia she was quick to enlist him as an unpaid stand-in producer and adviser. Jug didn’t mind the task, a quiet radio station late at night, lit only by the glow from the sliders and faders. It fitted his aesthetic and reminded him of the projection booth back at the Twilight Drive-In where he had worked and sometimes lived during high school. It was safe and solitary, the perfect environment for ruminative introspection. He sometimes took a slot in the schedule to attempt the reeducation of the student body’s musical taste but his on air style was taciturn, bordering on curt. He would back announce the last track, demand that the listener pay attention to the next and drag up the fader. Veronica would try to encourage him to say more, “You’re funny Jug, you’re a witty guy. Why can’t you share that?” but he felt pretty sure that no-one was interested in what he had to say about anything unless he had honed every phrase through drafts and redrafts as he did with his writing. It was enough that he had chosen the track, the audience had to decide for themselves what to think about it.

That evening Jughead packed his messenger bag with saran wrapped leftover pizza, soda, cigarettes, Absalom, Absalom! to reread for pleasure and White Teeth so that he could prove that he wasn’t “that guy from your MFA” if he got accepted onto an MFA. He arrived at the station and said “Hi” to Ethel who, he was slightly dismayed to find, was dealing with the phones. She smiled at him in a sentimental way and he scurried past, eyes down. She was a nice girl but she’d somehow formed this idea of him as some sort of abandoned, kicked puppy dog whose damage she could heal with her nurturing care even if he bit her and gave her fleas. He might be damaged but that damage was him. He certainly didn’t want his personality “cured.” He was embarrassed rather than flattered by her infatuation. If he was honest he didn’t want someone to adore him, to love him unconditionally, to forgive him anything. He thought it would be sickening. He’d never found a woman who would both call him on his shit and stay around afterwards but that was what he wanted. A girl who would stand up for herself, demand what she was worth and still understand that people screw up without turning that into a deal breaker. He suspected that she probably didn’t exist and if she did she would have no interest in a loser like him so he was trying to find refuge in a romanticised notion of the life of the strange, solitary, gloomy writer. He could keep polydactyl cats like Hemingway or put rotten apples in his desk drawer like Schiller. He’d just got himself installed in the control room when the Psych major arrived and forced him to rethink his life goals on the spot.

Ethel showed her into the tiny on-air studio and logged her into the computer as she indicated the microphone, the cue lights and the talk back button. She was beautiful in a wholesome, all American way that he didn’t know he’d like. But he did like it. He liked her shiny blonde hair, her large green eyes, her long neck, the shape of her breasts under her T shirt, oh God forgive him, he liked her breasts. She wore a short jean skirt and her legs just seemed endless, strong and tanned. She wore Chucks. Who knew that Chucks could be sexy? He never checked out girls like this, like some sort of sweaty-palmed predator. He jumped guiltily as Ethel’s voice came over the talk back into his control room while the girl sat down and put on the cans. “Hey Jughead? This is Betty Cooper. She’s all ready. She’s going to do about twenty minutes off the top and then we’ll open it up for calls. OK?”

“Cool, cool,” he said like a douche. He smiled at her through the glass, trying to look friendly and approachable and not like a sex pest. Having the words “Don’t come off like a sex pest” in your head when you smile at someone didn’t seem like something a normal person would do and both the on-air talent and Ethel looked back at him in some consternation.

Once they were on air she spoke clearly and calmly about the kinds of mental health difficulties that were prevalent among students. She was compassionate, well informed and calming to listen to. His books remained unopened and neglected. She was reassuring, explaining that there was a whole catalogue of treatment strategies so even if perhaps Cognitive Behaviour Therapy didn’t work for someone they might try medication or even meditation. She kept coming back to the idea that the role of mental health services was to match a treatment to a client and that the client needed to be honest with their doctor or therapist about what was and wasn’t working for them, and open minded enough to try different things. Eventually she asked the listeners to call in with questions or with anything that they wanted to discuss. “I just want to be clear, I’m not a qualified therapist so I’m not going to be offering advice other than suggesting places that you might go to seek help, but I can listen. You don’t need to give your name, in fact I’d rather you didn’t. Your confidentiality is really important. Our production staff will ask you for a pseudonym and we’ll use that. I think we’re going to have some tracks while we get the calls going. I’m looking forward to hearing from you.”

And then no-one called. He cued up another track and another and still the phones were silent. He stepped out of the control room and Ethel shrugged and gestured at the silent, dark switchboard. Students were the worst. Here was this brilliant, sympathetic woman, wanting to help them and what did they do? Ignored her. Then, at last, there was a light on the board and Ethel was answering. He dashed back into the control room ready to hook the call through when Ethel had taken details. He looked at his screen. “Reggie” was calling with a question regarding his relationship. He pressed the cue light but, when Betty looked down at the screen, her face paled and she drew her flat hand across her throat, her beautiful eyes wide. Quickly he cued yet another track and picked up the call himself without putting it through to air. “Reggie, you’ll be on air when I stop speaking. Go ahead please.” 

“Cooper, what’s a guy supposed to do when he dates a chick in good faith and then she won’t put out, like at all? Does that mean she’s like frigid or something? Does she need therapy or does she just need…”

“No, Reggie.” he interrupted. He just couldn’t bear to hear what he knew would come next. “It means you’re fucking repulsive. Do some work on yourself dude or go to work on yourself because you’ll never get a woman to touch you. Now fuck off.”

Ethel’s stricken face was at the porthole in the control room door. He stepped out again. “It’s OK Ethel. She nixed it before he got on air. Why isn’t anyone calling?”

“They don’t want to be first I guess. Like at a party or something, people don’t want to be the first to start dancing so you get the drunk idiots up to break the ice.”

“Hmm, wouldn’t know. Anyway, I’m starving, you couldn’t step across to the sandwich place for me could you? I can run phones from here, doesn’t look like we’re going to be swamped.” He reached into his pocket for a ten dollar bill and held it out.

“Sure Jughead. Beef, onion, mozzarella right?”

“Yep. Thanks Ethel. Lifesaver.”

As she left he grabbed his phone and stepped out to her desk. He typed in “Holden, social anxiety.” It was the first thing to come into his head and he guessed he could pretend to suffer from that even though he didn’t feel much anxiety because he refused to be social. He dialled the station’s number and put his own call through as he stepped back into the control room, pressed the cue button and then lurked in the shadows so she couldn’t see he was on the phone.

“Ok so we’ve got a caller at last. Hi ‘Holden’ how can I help?”

“I, umm…” He was floundering already, struggling to speak.

“Hey, it’s OK. You told our switchboard that you have some social anxiety so it’s brave of you to reach out like this. Honestly, picking up the phone was a real achievement. Can you tell me some of the things you’re feeling right at this minute?”

“I feel nervous I guess, like my heart’s beating too fast. My hands are sweaty, my neck too. I can hear my blood in my ears. I’m breathing too hard but I can’t slow it down. I’m worried that I might pass out or do something stupid, scream or some dumb shit.” As he said it he realised that it was all true. This was why he avoided using the phone if he could. It wasn’t too bad if he had a kind of script, like if he was calling to order pizza but if a girl called him he just tried to get off the phone as fast as he could. He didn’t even like calling JB even though he really wanted to know how she was doing. He texted her everyday but could only manage a weekly phone call.

“OK, maybe it would help you, when you have to make a phone call or something, to try some breathing exercises. Let’s try one together now. The listeners might like to try it at home too. Just get as comfortable as you can. Can you sit or lie down?”

“I’m sitting.”

OK, if you’re wearing something tight, like a buttoned collar or something, just loosen that. If you can, rest your arms on the arms of your chair. Put your feet a little apart, hip distance. Now just try breathing in gently and regularly through your nose and out through your mouth. You want to let your breath come as far into your belly as you comfortably can. We’re going to breathe in for a count of five and then out for a count of five but it’s fine if you can’t make it to five, just go to four or three. It’s more important to be comfortable. OK and in for one, two, three, four, and five.”

As she counted and breathed, he breathed with her. He could see her, feel her compassion for him, hear her voice soothing him. His breath slowed, his heartbeat became regular, he felt calmer than he had in days. She breathed with him for a few more counts and then softly she said “Is that a little better?”

“Yeah, much better.”

“Great. So you can just do that whenever you get that panicky feeling and it’ll just give you a moment to slow down and then you’ll be able to think calmly about what you need to do. Just getting a little more oxygen into your brain can really help. So let’s try to talk a little Holden. But if you start to panic you need to breathe again, just like that. OK?”

“OK, thanks.”

“Hey that’s fine. You’re so welcome. Can you tell me what kinds of situations make you feel a little stressed like that?”

“Anytime I’m with people I guess, except people I know really well, my roommate, my sister.”

“So parties?”

“Oh I just don’t go to parties. To be honest I skip a lot of my lectures. Too much. But I get pretty good grades so my profs don’t care too much.”

“OK, what about the grocery store? The gym? A restaurant?”

“I try to avoid them. I order a lot of take out and I have this metabolism that just burns through calories so I don’t need the gym. Not a jock.”

“OK. Relationships. Do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

“No, a friend fixes me up with dates sometimes but I tend to be a bit… she’d say difficult, hostile I guess. I think I just get defensive and I can’t make chit chat. Just never had the knack.”

“OK, maybe give yourself a break there. I bet most people couldn’t do small talk if their hearts were pounding out of their chests. So Holden it seems to me that maybe you’ve decided there are things, quite a few things, that aren’t for you because they make you nervous so you’ve given up on them. Might it be better to give up on the anxiety instead? Then you could do or do not as you chose.”

“Is that a Yoda reference? Are you Yoda-ing me?” He found he was smiling in spite of himself.

“Yes Padawan, that’s what I’m doing. I’d really suggest that you use your breathing exercise to get along to the counselling centre. If you get some help now it’s going to be way cheaper than if you wait until graduation. The suits at Columbia, you’re at Columbia right?” He grunted his assent, “they have a vested interest in you being your best self for their spreadsheets. Your mental health is their bottom line. So make them pay, that way getting well is kind of a political act too. Do you think you might be able to try that?” It was spooky that she had intuitively zeroed right in on the political angle like that.

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Ethel was back, waving a wrapped sub through the porthole. “Yeah, definitely. I have to go now. Thanks.” He ended the call and opened the door to take the sandwich as Betty began to talk about some of the different therapies available for social phobias.

“I’ve got all the lines ringing Jug. We’re on a roll. Did you put one through?”

“Yeah, some dude who was scared to go to the grocery store. Pussy.”

“Don’t be mean. Poor guy. Right I’ll cue up the next ones. See you later. Enjoy the sandwich.”

“Thanks Ethel.”

The rest of the show was lively and engaging. One girl had exam stress up the wazoo and Betty suggested that she talk to her student adviser, another girl seemed to be being gaslit by a terrible boyfriend and Betty gave out addresses of refuges that she could go to for help, someone else was scared to come out to their family and their girlfriend was upset not to be acknowledged. It helped him see that everyone was fighting their own battles and that made him feel a little less like a freak. He wondered if his subconscious had persuaded him he was calling to help her out because he never would have done it for himself. He wasn’t going to the counselling centre obviously but the breathing thing was good. He’d use that.

A couple of nights later Archie and Veronica were smooching on the couch in the apartment as he skulked past on his way from his room to the kitchenette when V screeched “Jughead!” at him. 

“What Veronica?” he snapped, not loving being yelled at in his own home.

“First, thanks for running the desk the other night. You’re my hero.”

“Hey!” protested Archie, pouting.

“Yes, so are you, sweet man. But Jughead, you heartbreaker! I heard a lot of praise for you yesterday.”

“Ethel’s just got a crush. She doesn’t even know me.”

“Not Ethel. Betty, the psych girl.”

His heart seemed to jump out of his chest, shake itself vigorously all over his insides like a wet dog and decide to live in his throat now. He couldn’t speak. “I…I…”

“She said that the hot…her word not mine…producer saved her from an embarrassing on air encounter with some guy and that she’d wanted to thank you but you’d run off when she was saying goodbye to Ethel and she’d missed her chance. You want I should set you up? She’s great. Pretty, smart…unfussy apparently…”

“No, no thanks. I’m not…I can’t…”

“Well OK Mr Erudite Writer. I’ll let her down gently. I’ll tell her you’re dating… or gay… or something.”

“No, no. Don’t tell her that. Just say I’m busy. I’ve got to get on with some work. Night.” He scuttled back to his room, forgetting the hunger that had driven him towards the kitchen in the first place and sat, hyperventilating, on the bed. He was struggling to deal with the waves of self loathing that were washing over him. He could hear the voice of his dad telling him to shape up, man up, take the girl out if she liked him, show her a good time. He could imagine Veronica in the next room saying he was “So extra,” and laughing that he would make such a big deal out of a girl saying he was hot. He just couldn’t handle any of it. Then he remembered the breathing and he put his feet firmly on the ground, anchored. He breathed in and counted, he got to two. He tried again, made it to three. Five minutes later his heart was returning to a normal rhythm. At last he could try to think about why he was having an attack of the vapours like the heroine of a Victorian melodrama. The obvious answer was because he was a pussy. The less obvious and possibly more frightening answer was because he really wanted Veronica to set him up with this girl. Another guy would have been able to go out on a date with her, make her laugh, charm her. That guy would be able to buy her drinks, fuck it he’d be able to dance with her. She might let him kiss her. She might let that guy touch her, stroke his fingertips over her breasts, let him give her an orgasm. But because he was, unfortunately, himself, none of those things would happen. Veronica would set them up and during the evening psych girl would begin to wonder why she had ever thought he was hot. He’d be awkward and rude without meaning it. He’d be too intense, he’d weird her out. They’d eat dinner, she’d say she was too full for desert and that she didn’t drink coffee after midday. She’d say that she had a headache or an early class, refuse his offer of a ride home on the bike, run away, block his number, leave the fucking country and change her name. He didn’t care when other girls hated him because he had carefully ensured he hated them first but this girl had gotten under his skin before he’d had a chance to protect himself. Now, without meaning to, he liked her. Which made him vulnerable. Which meant that she could hurt him. He couldn’t let that happen so he had to push back hard against liking her and against the terrible, scratching, insistent hope.

He had a paper to write on Faulkner’s assertion that his writing was concerned predominantly with “the human heart in conflict with itself.” He slept late, wrote, ordered takeout, wrote until the early hours, played video games until he felt nauseous with exhaustion and got up the next day to repeat it. His human interaction was restricted to a fist bump with Archie as he came in from the job site and then headed out to a gig or to Veronica’s and a “Thanks,” “Thanks Dude,” doorstep interaction as he accepted his meal and tipped the delivery guy. It was normal but it had begun to feel unacceptable. He stepped, blinking into the daylight after turning in his paper online, heading to campus to return books and check in with his adviser about the MFA applications. He was on the steps of the Butler Library when he saw her, blonde ponytail swaying as she chatted to some guy. She wouldn’t remember him so he ran up the steps two at a time, not looking left or right. “Jughead! Hey!”

He turned and looked at her. When you’re called Jughead you can’t pretend to think that the person calling it out doesn’t mean you. “Hey, umm Betty right?”

“Yes. OK, Scott, I’ll call you right?” Scott took his dismissal pretty well, turning and heading down the steps and away across the campus. “Hi Jughead I wanted to say thanks for getting rid of that call from Reggie. He’s such a douche. You handled it really well. I didn’t get a chance to tell you and then you weren’t there this week when I did my hour.”

“Yeah, I had a paper due so…”

“Yeah Veronica said you were stacked. Look can I buy you a coffee? To say thanks.”

“Oh there’s no need. Really it was nothing.”

“Ok, sorry. I can be pushy.” Under her breath, “Take the hint Betty.”

“Hey, no. I didn’t mean that. I’d like coffee. But you shouldn’t feel obliged or whatever.”

“So, I want to buy you coffee, you want coffee. Why are we making this hard?”

“Because I have the social skills of a skunk. Sorry.”

“Hey it’s all good. As long as you don’t have the personal habits of one we’ll be fine.”

Jug was relieved that he had finally succumbed to conventional social mores and showered that morning after skunking up the apartment for several days. He was clean even if that was the full extent of his appeal. They strolled across the South Field to the coffee shop on Amsterdam as he asked her about her most recent radio show. “Oh it was pretty great. I missed you though, Holden.” He stared at her, his cheeks flaring. “It’s alright Jughead. I liked talking to you. It was kind of you to call in to get the ball rolling. Thanks. How’s the anxiety? Did I just make it worse?”

“I just never talk about it. I guess I didn’t really even know it was a thing until I was describing it to you.”

“So did you go to the counselling centre?” He looked at his feet, guiltily as they queued for coffee. “No, it’s a tough ask. Honestly I know. We’ll change the subject. What paper are you writing?”

“Turned it in this morning. Faulkner and the human heart.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not into Faulkner?”

“No, he makes me feel hot and itchy and bored, like when I had to dress up and visit my grandparents in the summer vacation. Flannery O Connor yes, Faulkner nope.”

“OK, James Joyce or Samuel Beckett?” he queried, one eyebrow raised, aware he was setting the bar pretty high.

“Hmm tricky. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man but… Ulysses is unreadable. No Beckett, definitely Beckett.”

“I’ve read Ulysses,” he said quietly.

“Of course you have. David Foster Wallace or Thomas Pynchon?” Oh she wanted to see if he really was “that guy.”

“Pynchon. Virginia Woolf or Doris Lessing?” he followed up with no dog in the fight.

“Woolf. Toni Morrison or Margaret Atwood? Careful.” She clearly did have a stake on one of them. 

He took a guess. “Atwood.”

“Ah, no. You got one wrong. Morrison was the correct answer there.” She shook her head but the smile on her lips told him that it wasn’t a fatal error.

“I’d say it’s subjective but it isn’t is it? So you’re a reader then?” 

“Yeah, I mean I’m interested in people. Some of them are real, some are fictional. Lit crit and psychology are both just about picking up clues really, working out what makes people tick. Like you. We could lit crit you. If you had a character in a novel who was wearing a knitted hat in 70 degree heat what would you say the writer was trying to indicate?”

“Insecurity or baldness. I’m bald as an egg under here. What about a woman character who’s bright and feisty but went out with a total bro dude dick who tried to embarrass her on air?”

“Actually I’d give up the book. It’s too trope-y. Her gay best friend would have a crush on the pal of the bro dude. The writer has taken the crazy decision to call this character “Fangs.” Our heroine would have agreed to a double date to help out the course of true love and since a certain kind of jock is unable to conceive of the possibility that not every girl wants to pay for her dinner with a blow job he’d feel aggrieved by the lack of action.”

“Christ, men are actually the worst,” Jug mused.

“I feel you girlfriend,”she replied and was surprised by how the colour rose on his cheeks at the joke. “So do I get backstory about the beanie wearing protagonist?”

“Ah, I don’t want to bore you. Small town boy, dysfunctional family, gang, foster care, full ride Columbia, ta-dah.” He stretched out his long arms to indicate the end of the story.

“OK, Tristram Shandy it ain’t. I guess you’re going for a Hemingway vibe but it sounds like you’re paying by the word to tell that story. Dysfunctional how? At the risk of sounding like a psych major ‘Tell me about your mother.’” She’d put on a fake Austrian accent and pretended to draw on a cigar and he sniggered.

“You can’t really want to know this shit,” he protested.

“I can. I do. This stuff is like crack to us wannabe therapists. Speak.”

“OK. My mother sent me to school one morning when I was eleven and when I got home, without a door key I might add, she had taken my baby sister and gone. She left me and my alcoholic father to rot in the double wide and never came back. I used to make up stories about what I’d done in school and how dad was doing really well and not drinking and had a new job and I wrote them in long letters to her that I couldn’t post because she never left a forwarding address. They were my first foray into creative writing. My style’s developed. I don’t write fantasy anymore.”

“Christ Jug. That sounds rough. But a full ride? You must be kind of a genius?”

“Yep, certifiably a genius. Which is why I share a three hundred square foot apartment with my college drop out foster brother and haven’t eaten anything but take out for about three weeks. But I gave you an origin story. Do I get one in return?”

“Ah well, everyone who majors in psych is an honest to God basket case. My mother is a neurotic ex bad girl who pretends she was homecoming queen, My dad has been nagged and criticised until now he’s kind of transparent; he drifts in, says “Yes dear” and hides in the garage to drink beer until he can have a massive coronary and make the misery stop. My sister had twins in senior year, her boyfriend was murdered and she joined a cult. Which makes me number one daughter despite the fact that I deliberately provoke my mother by refusing to diet until my bones poke out and continuing to have opinions.” He was laughing at the way in which she described the horror show and she joined in. Soon they were swapping anecdotes of batshit crazy parenting, his dad sending a biker gang round to take care of him when he got sent to jail, her mother throwing rocks through her dad’s office window when they’d had a fight. They guffawed and gasped with the absurdity of it. “But we made it Jughead. We got through it, didn’t we? We’re stronger that all that bullshit, all the white noise.”

She’d finished her coffee and looked up at him. He knew what he was expected to do, ask for her number, tell her he’d had fun, text her something cute later. But really what was the point? She’d had what he was able to offer her. If they met again she’d find out who he really was. This lovely experience would be the precursor to a disappointment rather than a beautiful moment between strangers, filled with possibilities. Like a flower, it wouldn’t last. Look at blooms in a park, you can keep that memory forever. If you try to keep them, pick them, take them home, you have to watch them decompose in front of you until you throw the stinking, rotten mess in the trash. Nothing gold can stay. So he didn’t do it. He picked up his messenger bag, smiled and held out his hand like they’d had a business meeting, shook hers when she held it out tentatively and said “Thanks Betty. I liked talking to you. Goodbye.”

The next day he received his acceptance onto the MFA at the University of California, Irvine, congratulating himself that he hadn’t begun some doomed bicoastal romance. He avoided the radio station, graduated summa cum laude, packed his boxes, shoulder bumped goodbye to a suspiciously wet eyed Archie and drove across the country in an epic, hilarious, bonding road trip with his little sister, dropping her off to begin her own degree in Boulder on the way.


	2. When I try to open up to you I get completely lost

Two years later he had the first draft of a novel which, if pushed, he would concede was not total horseshit. He’d worked hard, taken few breaks and supported himself with construction jobs which he informed Archie gloatingly was more enjoyable in the golden state than snowy New York where Archie was still describing himself as a musician even though he spent everyday on a worksite. Jughead liked feeling physically exhausted at the end of the day, much preferred it to the mental paralysis that eight straight hours at the keyboard induced but anyone could haul block. No one else had his voice as a writer. He took it seriously, perhaps too seriously. It seemed the only validation he could accept. The anxiety was still there. Breathing helped a little but, after a month when he’d wrestled with himself everyday just to leave his apartment, he decided that he needed help. He thought about the vomiting that had become a feature of days when he had to share chapters and the fact that he’d lived in his studio apartment for two years and never had a guest over for dinner or even to play video games. He thought about the girl at the radio station saying it was better to get his therapy subsidised by his education provider than wait and foot the whole bill himself. He thought about how he hadn’t even been able to ask her out for a drink. Eventually, after false starts and missed appointments, he got himself to the student counselling service.

He checked himself in with the receptionist and she looked at her screen. “OK so you’ll be seeing one of our counsellors in training today but don’t worry she’s very experienced. She’s almost completed her supervised clinical hours and we’ve already asked her to join our staff so you won’t need to change therapist. Her name is Elizabeth, Elizabeth Cooper.” He remembered his breathing while he sat and waited for his appointment, convincing himself that it was a common enough name. It was just a coincidence, synchronicity. Then he was called into another room and there she was, Betty Cooper, in the flesh. She gawped a little and he realised that she would have him listed on her schedule under his student identification, Forsythe Jones not Jughead.

“Jughead! Oh my goodness, what a surprise. Come in, come in. It’s great to see you. And in the counselling centre. Well done, that’s so great. MFA, am I right?”

“Yeah, what are you doing here? I thought you’d be back east.”

“No, I’m studying at UCLA and doing my clinical internship here. My mother was driving me crazy and I figured out the furthest places I could go were Alaska or California. Sunshine won. So… therapy?”

“Yeah, I met this girl once. She recommended that I talk to someone. I’m not known for my hastiness so, two years later, here I am.”

“Well, I’m delighted and it’s good to see you but I’m going to step out and get someone else to take you on as a client if that’s OK.”

“Oh, sure. OK.” He understood, of course he did. He’d given her an ungallant brush off and it wasn’t surprising that she would be reluctant to listen to him whining about his man pain for an hour a week. Got it. He forced a grimacing smile, wondering if he could bolt, and she stared at him for a moment before sitting down again. 

“Look Jughead. I’m a new therapist so I know the theory pretty well. What’s hard, the reason that we have to complete hundreds of supervised clinical hours, is the emotional stuff. And it’s important to recognise when you have some kind of emotional stake in the treatment. If I have a client with a problematic relationship with a domineering mother I have to be really careful that I’m giving my client the best help and not just bringing my shit into the room. Right?” Jug nodded. “OK so, for some reason, through no fault of yours, I would struggle, at this stage in my training, to maintain an appropriately detached clinical approach with you. I know I only know you a little but it’s enough. It’d be bad for you because no-one wants their therapist to be struggling with that shit, bad for me because I would have some pretty difficult discussions with my supervisor, and bad for my relationship with my very loyal boyfriend. So I’m going to back out of this one, discretion being the better part of valour, and hand you over to a colleague. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to embarrass you but I also didn’t want you to think that you’d done anything wrong. The issue is entirely mine.” Her cheeks were flushed scarlet with humiliation but her speech had been the most honest, emotionally vulnerable thing he’d heard in years. He admired that her sense of herself was strong enough to be so real. He couldn’t quite tell if he wanted to kiss her or be her. And yet, ringing in his ears, was the word boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. 

“Thanks Betty. I’ve thought about you often you know. Wondering what might have happened. But I guess I already know. I have this ability to destroy any warm feelings. I seem to be impossible to like for very long. A hostile environment for joy. I’m Death Valley for relationships. But I think about you a lot. You’re kind of in my novel.”

“Right, and that’s exactly why I need to go now. You keep on saying these intriguing things. I wish you all the best Jughead. I really hope you find your happiness. I’m so pleased that you’ve decided to try. Goodbye.”

He saw a different therapist, Jeff. It was good…helpful. He talked about his mother. They all seemed to be obsessed with mothers. He came to see that his eleven year old brain had been frantically trying to write a story that explained why she had left him without having to concede that she was a terrible mother. No kid can stomach that narrative. The interpretation he’d created was that he was bad, that she was right not to love him because he was so unloveable. And then, later, when people challenged that narrative what he heard was them saying to his eleven year old self that his mother was an inadequate, selfish person. So “I love you,” translated into “Your mother’s a bitch.” Unsurprisingly when people said it, or he thought they might say it, he got mad, pushed them away. Jeff had him think about why a mother might leave a child behind without either her or the child being bad. He guessed that she might have felt it would be impossible to save both her children so she took the younger, the girl, the one she knew would definitely flounder without her. He also understood that, in that situation, the one person who couldn’t be at fault was the kid. Understanding a little of it was good but it didn’t change how he felt. He still felt that he was impossible to love and, if anyone seemed inclined to try, he fled, perhaps to protect them or maybe his view of the world. Feeling so vulnerable to other people made it hard to cope with being among them. Jeff said it might take a few years of therapy to learn new ways to cope with his feelings. It could be a long haul.

He wondered if he’d see Betty at the counselling centre or around campus but he never did. Then, one unusually chilly LA Friday night, the local independent movie theatre was showing a double feature, American Graffiti followed by Dazed and Confused. He smiled wryly, on-screen friendship as a stand in for the real thing. He was waiting to buy his ticket, surrounded by the familiar scent of hotdogs and popcorn, when inside, by the concessions stand, he saw her blonde ponytail. He’d met her three times and yet he recognised her instantly, from the back, at fifty yards. Something about the way she stood. Her arm was linked through that of a tall, broad shouldered blonde haired guy. He looked like a jock. Swimmer perhaps, water polo possibly. Jug watched her as she looked up at him, her mouth curved in a gentle smile. She was wearing a sweater, light blue. It looked soft. His fingertips twitched with the urge to touch it. The guy was laughing at something she’d said, a deep belly laugh, reaching out and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. There, inside, food and laughter, love and movies, him outside watching without a ticket. It had always been that way. Jughead felt like a stupid kid in comparison to the boyfriend. He couldn’t imagine ever being someone who had permission to just casually reach out a hand and touch her. Suddenly he realised he’d seen the guy before. Brad? No, Scott…fucking Scott. He put his wallet back in his pocket and went home, alone.

On a sweltering June afternoon in LA three years later he was striding across the street to a meeting at one of the independent production companies, feeling hot and irritable. The air was thick and fume laden and his lungs felt tight, constricted. His novel had earned him his Masters degree and a book deal. It was published without fanfare or publicity but became a sleeper hit. The publisher had given him a slightly insulting advance and ordered a first print run of 7,000 copies but he was just happy to be published. Then it just kept selling. Word of mouth led to book store recommendations and book group readers which led to it being promoted on best book podcasts and finally it was chosen by a daytime chat show as book of the month. It was reprinted four times and had sold just over half a million copies. The advance for the second book was much more generous. One morning he’d been trying to adult by looking at property listings online, the prices making him feel breathless and clammy, when his phone rang and his literary agent told him that she had received an offer for the film rights to the book. She had to name the price three times before he could grasp it. 

He was interested in the film-making process and gradually he seemed to get more and more involved in the project. He’d met and liked the producer and she’d been prepared to listen to Archie’s ideas for the soundtrack when Jug set up a meeting. She introduced him to the director, a wunderkind called Kevin who’d made a number of well received shorts and who was passionate about the material. After a disastrous attempt at a screenplay by an established writer had been rejected, Jug had agreed to take a pass at it himself. The film dealt with the issues he’d been working through as he wrote; a girl naively gets involved with a guy with too much damage to care for her and he ruins her life without ever meaning her any harm. Kevin had read his pages, liked them, but felt that he needed some professional input on the psychological issues at work. He’d called a week ago to set up this meeting, “We just need to be careful Jughead, show that we’ve taken this stuff seriously. My closest friend is a psychologist. Completely brilliant, PhD, the works. I’ve told her that I want her to consult but obviously I haven’t given her any details about the project, until she signs on. I’ve asked her to come in on Tuesday so you can meet her, see if she’s someone you can work with. If she is then we’ll give her a copy of what you’ve written of the screenplay to look over, give us thoughts, feedback. OK?” So now some stranger, an academic, was going to pull apart his characterisation, tell him that none of it was realistic or that it was self indulgent narcissism or something. He was running late, LA traffic was the pits and the anxiety that he had a much better handle on these days was making itself felt. He threw open the door of the meeting room a little too aggressively only to find Betty Cooper staring at him with an amused smile. “Hey Jughead. Come in why don’t you?”

It was like they’d seen each other last week not three years ago. They hugged in greeting, Kevin looking from one to the other in confusion. “Betty refused to take me on as a client once. Too much of a challenge for her,” Jughead laughed as he explained.

“Actually, if you recall I told you that you were just too sexy for me to maintain professional distance.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. I forgot that. How’s…Scott, it was Scott wasn’t it?”

“In the wind. No, don’t worry, it’s fine. He’s great, just not great for me. What about you? Married?”

No, apparently I’m a commitment-phobe. My girlfriend actually cried when I cleared out a drawer for her at my apartment after we’d been dating for a year.”

She smiled and nodded. They were on the same page, unfortunately those pages were in completely different books. They began to discuss the movie. She’d read the book and said that she’d loved it, bought a copy for her mother for Christmas when it came out, boasted about knowing the writer. He thanked her for the royalties she’d paid him and said that she could have comps of the next one as a loyal customer. She looked at a few pages of the screenplay and agreed to come on board as a consultant to help with rewrites and to offer guidance to actors. She and Jug swapped cellphone numbers before the meeting ended and he pecked her on the cheek as he dashed off to meet Trula after her audition in Studio City.

The production of a film proved to be an agonisingly slow process. He worked on the screenplay for a few months and fell into the habit of texting Betty when he needed to check the authenticity of a character’s reaction. Gradually he began to call her just to get her input on dialogue or even an establishing shot. Then he was calling because he liked to hear her voice. It was out of character because he still avoided the phone when he could, just not with Betty. He didn’t mention it to Trula because she was just a friend, a colleague, but it occurred to him that he never checked a line of dialogue with his professional actress girlfriend. Eventually he sent his screenplay off to Kevin and went on the book tour that accompanied the publication of the new book. He didn’t stop calling Betty. He wondered if it was wrong but he didn’t want to stop.

He got back from his tour, feeling drained and jaded. Trula had begun to leave listings for houses around his apartment. When he asked if she was planning to move she said she’d been thinking they could buy somewhere together, make a home. His stomach turned over nauseatingly and something in his head screamed “No no no NO.’ He forced a smile and said that was something to think about. He knew that he would have to find a way to break up with her. He talked to his therapist about it, wondering if he was repeating his old habits of rejecting love. She was beautiful, cared about him, was a little self absorbed which gave him some space, she seemed perfect, but still he felt trapped, panicky, angry. Acknowledging those feelings seemed like progress for him but like the death knoll for his relationship. It came to a head when she came back from a holiday in Mexico with her girlfriends and pushed up the leg of her shorts when he met her at the airport to show him the tattoo high up on her thigh. The interlinked monographs TT and JJ were tastefully done, clearly by a skilful artist but he stared at it in horror. “Christ Trula, what’ve you done?”

She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “I told myself that you’d love it, be moved by it, and then I’d persevere with you. I know commitment’s hard for you. But it’s not just that you’re scared of commitment is it Jug? You just don’t care enough about me to try. I deserve more than this. A lot of guys want me.” He felt like he could exhale a breath he’d been holding, at last.

“You’re right Trula. I’m so sorry. I’m just not the kind of man who should be in a relationship. I just can’t do it. I’m just a desert inside. Nothing can grow here. You’re great. You’ll find someone who’ll treat you so much better. Let me take you home.”

“Oh fuck off Jughead,” she spat and stalked off through the terminal building, dragging her suitcase and limping a little. When he got home he emptied her drawer into a cardboard carton, placed her toothbrush on top and scribbled a note, "Trula, I’m sorry I couldn’t do better. I know you’ll be happier now. Thank you for trying for so long. J.” He was really thanking her for setting him free, throwing him back and he felt guilty. He drove round to her condo and left the box on the doorstep, pushing the buzzer and getting straight into his car and pulling away like a coward. He only got to the end of the road before he called Betty.

“Trula and I broke up,” he said.

“Oh Jug, I’m sorry. Do you need some company? Do you want to come over?”

“Yes please. I’d like that.”

“I’m texting the address now.”

He’d never been to her place. It was a little house in West Hollywood. She opened a side gate when he rang the bell and he stepped into a tiny yard hung with paper lanterns. She handed him a cold beer and they sat in lawn chairs. She had an orange cat that came and sat on his lap without looking him as if he were a piece of furniture. “What happened?”

“She got my initials tattooed on her leg. I freaked out. She dumped me and I feel nothing but relief. Yeah, don’t look at me like that, I already rang my therapist before I came over. Christ, how L.A. am I? I’ve got an appointment on Monday. I’m not here for free therapy.”

“Oh Jug. Relationships are just hard. Scott left because he said I never needed him. Like if I had a problem I just dealt with it. He felt superfluous. He’d followed me out here to try to make it work and I really did try but when he left I was like, ‘OK then’ because I thought it ought to be enough to want to spend time with someone. I don’t want to need them. Which I guess means it’ll just be me and Caramel from here on in. Lonely cat lady.” 

That was the moment at which he lost control. He sprang out of the lawn chair, leaned over her, took her face in his hands and kissed her hard, pushing her head back with the force of it, moaning against her mouth. And then she was kissing him back, her tongue hot in his mouth, a hand on his shirt pulling him deeper. He broke the kiss to drag in a breath and she was standing, her eyes boring into his. “I know this is a huge fucking epic mistake but I can’t stop myself. Jug I want you so much. I need to be irresponsible, just once in my goddamn life.” 

Her hands were under his shirt and he had his mouth at her collarbone, pushing his hips against her, muttering “Yes, fuck yes,” knowing that this was what he’d wanted every time he’d called her even though he would have denied it until this moment. She took a step back and grabbed his hand and led him into the house. They were in the kitchen and he couldn’t wait any longer. He grabbed the bottom of her shirt, searching her eyes for permission and the moment that she nodded he pulled it over her head. He lowered his mouth to her breasts, kissing and tasting her, reaching around her to unclasp her bra and then throwing it to the floor, stroking her breasts and groaning as he pushed his hands onto her. It wasn’t enough and he placed his hand between her legs, pawing at her in his desperation. She keened and reached for him through his jeans. He seemed to have shed his inhibitions, he didn’t care that he was behaving like an animal, he just had to have her now. He scrabbled at the button of her jeans, her hands banging against his as she reached for his belt buckle. They laughed breathlessly at the absurdity of it. 

“Let me touch you Jug, come on, the bed…” She led him through to her room and undid the buttons of his shirt, whispering “Oh you’re just stupidly hot,” as she pushed it off his shoulders and shoved against him to get him to lie down. He lifted his hips to push down his jeans, only then remembering to pull off his chucks, throwing the tangled mess of denim and canvas away from him. She tugged down her shorts and stepped out of them, leaving them in a heap on the floor to come and lie down next to him as he stared at her, transfixed. Now he’d had a moment to recover his wits he looked at her seriously.

“Betty are you sure about this? I really want you but if you’re not sure…” He’d respect her decision if she changed her mind but he’d have to ask her to hose him down in the yard before he left, he was so excited by her.

“Has anything suggested that I’m not one hundred percent here for this? I’m pretty sure this isn’t wise or prudent but I’ve wanted you for five years. I’ve always been a good girl. It’s time to be bad. I’m not taking a rain-check.” He could see it in her eyes. She looked at him like he was worth seeing, like he had something she needed. He wanted to give her everything he was or ever would be.

“OK bad girl, come here.” He began to run his long fingers over her skin, touching her like he was trying to commit her to memory. He looked deep into her clear green eyes for any sign of hesitation or doubt but there was none. He remembered that she had always been straightforward and honest about what she wanted and he was starting to hope that that might be him. He brushed his fingers lightly over her breast as he had always wanted to, watching her back arch to seek more contact and he increased the pressure, kissing her neck, whispering in her ear how beautiful and sexy she was, how he couldn’t believe he was here, touching her.

She began to kiss his throat, hitching a leg over his waist as they lay facing each other, pressing herself against him, hot, urgent. “I know you’ll doubt me Jughead but I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I liked you the first time I laid eyes on you, all Hamlet in a beanie. Now I’m enjoying the California boy who just forgot to button his shirt.” 

“You told me once to undo a tight collar, so I could breathe.”

She pushed down his boxers and he kicked them from his feet. “Naked is even better.” She was kissing him, whispering against his skin how much she wanted him and he had the sensation that he’d come home, that he was safe at last after a long, dangerous journey. He put his hand on her hip and moved his fingers under the fabric that covered her, stroking her softly as she gasped and thrust against him. Impatiently, she rolled away for a moment and pulled off her underwear, reaching for him. Then she was pushing on his shoulder, indicating that she wanted him to lie on his back. He was into it, she knew what she wanted and she was going to take it. She clambered onto him, her hands pressing against his chest and slid against him as he gasped and bucked his hips. 

“Condom,” he muttered reaching for his jeans, hoping to Christ there was one in his wallet. She shook her head and reached into the nightstand.

“I’m never putting my faith in a wallet condom. They perish. Here we are.” She tore open the packet and rolled it onto him skilfully, catching his look of surprise at her speed and efficiency. “I know, but I work with college kids, remember. I have sheathed more items from the produce aisle than any woman should.” 

He chuckled, “Well I hope I measure up.”

“Like a lovely zucchini." He must have looked disappointed, "Okay, a huge marrow, a squash. Christ male vanity. You measure up just fine. He’s beautiful.” She licked her lips in a way that was so lascivious that he felt desire pulsing through him. Then she was positioning herself and sinking onto him and his brain seemed to lose all higher function. He was inside Betty Cooper. He stared mesmerised as she raised herself to sink down again. He reached for her breasts and sat up to suck a trail of red marks over them, biting gently on her nipples and groaning against her as she took him deeper and deeper. She was in charge of her own pleasure and he found it unbelievably hot. Now she was grinding against him, figure of eights, panting, moaning out his name and he was reaching between them to stroke her and push back against her pelvis. Her moan turned into a wordless cry and he felt her spasm against him. It almost pushed him over the edge himself but he held on so that he could thrust up into her while she was still so sensitive. He remembered the figure of eight thing and he tried to repeat that for her. Soon she was gasping again and calling out his name over and over, her head thrown back, her breasts pushed out for him and he lost all semblance of control and came harder and longer than he could ever remember. It had been quick and a little frantic but he’d never felt so fulfilled. It hadn’t just been his body that was engaged, he’d felt it in his heart too. That was new.

He reached for her as she collapsed, boneless against him and held her, stroking her hair, whispering that she was amazing, wonderful, a revelation. She slept and he continued to brush his lips against her skin until he drifted off too.

He woke to find the early dawn light reaching its glowing fingers through the window blinds. He was alone. Her side of the bed was cold. He got up and pissed before searching her out, pulling on boxers as he went. She sat on a rocker on the tiny porch in just a long T shirt, her feet pulled up under her. He approached ready to smile and kiss her but her expression stopped him in his tracks. What had he done? Horror and fear poured over him like a bucket of ice water. He was on his knees in front of her. “Betty, what is it? What did I do? Christ Betts, I didn’t hurt you did I? Did I pressure you? Tell me I didn’t force you.”

“No, Jug, no, not at all. You were wonderful. You are wonderful. It’s me. I’m so sorry. You came here in emotional distress, looking for a friend and I totally took advantage of you. It was so wrong. What’s the matter with me?” 

“I don’t feel violated Betty. I was…I am so into it. Really you didn’t do anything wrong. Come back to bed.”

“No Jug, that’s not going to happen. I know that you have vulnerability around abandonment. Your girlfriend left you and you were sad. You’ve never liked me like that, I know that. I can’t believe that I did this. It goes against everything I believe in. I should have been protecting you.”

“I don’t need protecting Betty. I’m not some weak little baby. I’m perfectly OK. I function just fine thanks.” He was getting mad. She was going to ruin everything. “How can you say I don’t like you like that? I was pretty fucking hard for you a few hours ago wasn’t I? Not everything about me boils down to goddamn mommy issues you know. You don’t have to therapise me.”

“Jug, I’m sorry. Look let’s just go back to being friends, yeah? Try to forget this happened.”

“You want me to forget that I just had the best sex of my life, that I found someone that I connected with more than I’ve ever felt connected in my life? Because somehow me liking you interferes with your idea of yourself as the perfect therapist? Fine. I’ll just repress the hell out of that. Thanks Dr Freud. See you round.” 

Within ten minutes he was pulling away from the curb, leaving her sobbing on her porch, because that was what he did. Two women in the space of twelve hours had been completely ruined by an encounter with Jughead Jones. As far as superpowers go, his really fucking sucked.


	3. Hand Me Your Hand, Let Me Look In Your Eyes

Archie called and asked him to be best man at his wedding. He tried to refuse until Archie yelled, “Why would I ask anyone else Jug? I need my brother.” On the big day he was nervous and twitching as he helped Arch get ready and as he stood at the altar in the big, weird smelling church. He felt like anything but the best man until it was finally time for him to give his speech which, because he’d written it carefully, was a big hit. He got a few laughs and was then able to relax and enjoy the rest of the day. He even waltzed with one of the bridesmaids, wondering who the hell he had become. As the evening drew to a close he found himself smoking cigars with Arch on a dark terrace at the fancy hotel Veronica’s folks had hired. “What happened with the girl?” Arch asked, only slurring a little.

“What girl? Trula?”

“No, not her. **The** girl. The psych girl.” 

Jughead had told him that he’d been working with her on the screenplay but not about their abortive fling. “Oh Betty. I don’t know. We may have had a moment but I guess I fucked it up. Bad timing I suppose.” She’d left him just one voicemail afterwards. She said she wanted to be his friend but she’d understand if he didn’t want to call her back. He hadn’t called her. He reasoned that he should learn from his experience with Trula. A kind, beautiful woman had wanted to be with him, cared about him, but he’d crushed her feelings out of existence. It wasn’t just how it’d ended. She’d said she loved him and he’d choked, not once, dozens of times. He wasn’t equipped for relationships. Like mother, like son. He had no excuse to drag Betty into his shit, especially not if he claimed to care about her. Instead he’d bought a house and stayed in it, working on the new novel.

“Crap. You want her. Make it happen man.”

“I couldn’t inflict myself on her Arch, she’s much too put together for me.”

“Jug, I love you. You’re my brother but you’re full of shit. You’re crazy, she’s a doctor for crazy people. It’s perfect. Get her the fuck back man.” 

“I love you too, man,” Jug replied smiling at his directness, “I’ll think about it.” He had to admit that Archie had a point but he had no clue how to begin a project like that.

A few weeks after the wedding he opened his mail to find an invitation to the movie’s premiere. It had eventually made it through post production, with Archie’s songs actually making it into the final cut, to Jug’s relief. He threw the card into the waste paper basket in his study but a few hours later Veronica called, excited and happy, to tell him that the Lodge Andrewses would be coming into town on a belated honeymoon especially to walk the red carpet. He wondered if he should go, as a kind of test of the progress he had made. He still loathed crowds, hated being singled out for attention, felt tongue tied when small talk was required but he didn’t often feel the rising panic, the chest thumping, dry mouthed anxiety that he used to experience. He thought he had made it from phobic to good old fashioned introverted, out of neurosis and into a personality type. In a shadowy corner of his mind some kind of hobgoblin of hope was whispering that she might be there, he might be able to talk to her. He tried to silence it but he just couldn’t make it stop. Defeated he fished the invitation back out of the trash and asked Veronica if she would help him to buy a suit when she got to LA, still unsure if he could actually go through with it. 

“Out with it Torombolo,” she said.

“What?”

“This isn’t just about the premiere or a suit is it? You’re brooding. It’s your natural demeanour I know but what’s churning around your head like a cat in a washing machine right now?”

When he said “Betty,” she told him it was ridiculous that they were still dancing around each other after more than six years. 

“Go to the premiere. If she’s there and wants you she’ll make it happen. She won’t play games.”

“But V, I’m not the kind of guy she deserves, not even close.”

“Yeah, agreed, but it’s not up to you. If you want her and she wants you then you need to get out of the way of your own happiness. Is she a child? Is she educationally challenged?”

“You know she’s not. She’s a fucking PhD.” 

“OK, so comparatively you’re a dumb dumb. You need to lay out your pitch and let her decide what’s best. And maybe it doesn’t make sense to you that she’d choose you but the heart wants what the heart wants.”

He nodded, still not sure if he could go through with it but prepared to think about it. When she arrived she helped him buy a blue suit that he thought was too expensive but that she, to his shocked amusement, said would make it more likely that he could put the D in the PhD. 

He spoke to Kevin and arranged to get into the premiere through the side entrance because he had no intention of venturing anywhere near a red carpet even at this relatively small and unstarry event. He might be doing much better but that would be a step too far. Once inside he found his seat with Archie and Veronica, both of them glowing from being photographed and complimented. Eventually Jughead saw Kevin arrive and he waved, his hand freezing when he saw Betty just behind him on the arm of a handsome dark haired man. She wore a green dress that was the exact shade of her eyes. Her arms were bare, her dress supported by thin sparkling straps that he longed to slip down over her shoulders. The house lights were still up and Kevin was heading over to say hello. Jug looked for the exit, the theatre felt hot and airless and he wasn’t quite able to catch his breath. “Archie, talk to Kevin for a sec. I need to get some air,” he hissed and ducked back out of the side door. He stood in the warm LA night, the sound of a small crowd that had gathered to yell at the actors drifting around from the front of the theatre. He felt stupid, paying for this suit, putting himself in the way of all this stress, only to see Betty arrive with her new boyfriend. He fumbled for a cigarette and pulled out his phone to call an Uber so he could go home. His hands weren’t steady and he dropped his lighter and then, flailing to catch it he dropped his phone too. He was scrabbling on the sidewalk when a pair of stiletto heeled shoes appeared in his peripheral vision. “Hey Jug. You OK?”

“Hey Betty,” he tried to sound cheerful, looking up from his crouched position, his hair falling into his eyes. “Dropped my lighter…and my phone. Klutz.”

“Why are you out here? Was the crowd too much?”

“No, it’s fine. It’s good to see you. I’m sorry I didn’t call you but I guess it worked out for the best. I’m sure you’ll be happy, you and…,” he stood up and tried to meet her eye.

“Fangs,” she laughed. “I was with Kevin’s husband, Jug. They didn’t want me to be alone on the red carpet. I didn’t even deserve to be there but I figured I’ll never get another chance to wear a dress I can’t afford and pose for photographers who have no clue who I am, so it’d be fun. And it kind of was. And are you kidding me with this suit? This is a great suit.”

He exhaled in a juddering breath. The guy wasn’t her boyfriend. She liked the suit. “Thanks. The dress was worth every cent. You do deserve to be there. You helped me with the screenplay, you took an actor with the interior life of an avocado and coached him to play introspection. You deserve it.” He swallowed hard. This might be the last chance. He couldn’t count on fate to throw her into his path again. “Can I say something to you? I don’t imagine you want to hear it but I feel like I need to say it.”

“Sure. Speak.” She seemed to brace herself as if he was going to strike her. 

“Betty I really miss you. I miss calling you on the phone. I miss things that I’ve never even done with you. I’d like to cook a meal with you, wake up and find you in my arms, lie on the beach reading with you. I know that I’m not what you deserve, I have no experience in bringing anyone joy, I have nothing to offer you. But I still want you. All the fucking time. Every day. Every night.”

She stared at him, eyes wide and shocked. “You said once that you were Death Valley for relationships. Do you remember?” He nodded, that certainly sounded like something he’d say. “A few weeks ago I watched a documentary on Netflix about it, about Death Valley. There’s this fish. The Death Valley pupfish. It only lives in two creeks in Death Valley, it likes hot, salty water, thrives on it. When I saw it I thought about you, about us. I think I might be your pupfish. I miss you too. Have we been messing this up?” He nodded and looked down, trying not to hope, trying to manage his expectations, nothing so good could happen. She picked that moment to kiss him, pressing against him until his back was against the wall of the theatre, making him drop his phone again. Her hands were in his hair, his fingers holding her jaw to push his mouth against her with more pressure. They both moaned and whimpered, unable to get close enough. She pulled back a little and murmured, “How do you keep getting more attractive? It’s ridiculous Jughead, what the actual fuck?”

“Such a sexy pupfish. God, I need you Betty. I need to take this dress off you. I can’t make it through the film. Let’s go to your house.”

“You can’t miss your movie. You’ve worked so hard.” He looked at her and saw, without any doubt, that she wouldn’t be moved on that but that she was as desperate for him as he was for her.

“Ok come with me. Quietly. Trust me I used to be a projectionist.”

Having had experience in the art of cinematic exhibition had never been such a boon to Jughead. He took her hand and led her inside, along corridors and up a flight of stairs, navigating by instinct. Soon he found the projection booth. He still mourned for the days of 35mm projection but the digital age meant there were no reels to change, the programme would be started remotely with the press of a key on the central computer, all of which meant the booth was conveniently empty. So as not to take unnecessary risks he pushed a chair under the door handle and fell on her, kissing her like she was oxygen itself to him. She was pulling his shirt untucked and trying to take off his jacket at the same time, getting tangled and impatient. “OK, OK, slow down,” he whispered.

“No,” she hissed. “Hurry.”

He grinned at her and took off his jacket, draping it over the table. He indulged his fantasy and pushed first one and then both straps of her dress off her shoulders. It simply floated off her to pool at her feet as if it were the ocean from which she was arising like Aphrodite. He couldn’t swallow, his mouth was so dry. Under her dress she wore some kind of corset with tiny hooks and eyes. “You ought to know I wanted you the first moment I saw you, in a jean skirt and chucks. But this, Betty, this is the stuff of dreams.” He picked up her dress and laid it carefully over his jacket. “Can’t have you looking all wrinkled and debauched can we? What would momma say?” Her fingers were unbuttoning his shirt but she paused with a gasp, the colour high in her cheeks. He saw it and knew he was onto something. He looked at the complicated undergarment. “Christ Betts, this thing isn’t built for speed.” 

She looked him in the eye and said, I’ve been tugging it up since I put it on. It’ll slip down. For easy access.” It did. He lifted her breasts out from the cups and it was one of the most erotic moments of his life as she arched her back, chasing his touch, standing in this room in her lingerie so desperate for him. Her hands stroked over his chest and then she was unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning, dipping her hand into his boxers and stroking him until he was trembling and gasping like the horny teenager he’d never been, under the bleachers at the homecoming game. He kissed her breast, dragging his teeth over her nipple and she groaned. “You have to be quiet Betts, unless you want everyone in the auditorium to hear,” he whispered as he lifted her onto the console. She gasped again at that thought. “You can be quiet, can’t you?”

“Yes Jug. I can be quiet.”

“Good girl,” he murmured against her neck and she quivered at his words. He was learning a lot.

He pushed aside the lace of her underwear and stroked his fingers against her, watching as she took her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down to keep from moaning. It was almost too much for him. Almost. He pressed his fingers against her and then pushed her knees apart. If anyone in the world had ever been more turned on than he was at this moment he imagined it must have been fatal. He knelt before her and replaced the movement of his fingers with his tongue, moving his hand to push his fingers inside her, thrusting against her, thrilled by the muffled sounds that she simply couldn’t contain. When he looked up at her, hair in his eyes, his fingers working inside her, she whimpered. He whispered, “Shh Betts or they’ll hear, they’ll all know how bad you’ve been, letting me do this to you,” and she clenched to her climax instantly. He grinned as he kissed the inside of her thigh but he was harder than he could ever remember being, something about the risk, her reckless need for him and how unbelievably hot she was, putting him on a hair trigger that might be embarrassing.

“Please Jug, come here,” she muttered, reaching for him. He stood and now she slipped from the desk to stand pressed against him, pulling him from his boxers and gripping him with her strong, capable hand. She stroked him a few times and then, maintaining direct, intense eye contact, knelt and took him in her mouth. He moaned, loudly. 

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. He hissed, “I know, but Betts, you’re fulfilling so many fantasies. I can’t help it. Oh Christ.” She was taking him deeper, using her hand at the same time, stroking him, now her other hand was at his hip, fingernails digging into his flesh with a delicious pressure. His spine was turning to molten iron, his whole body, his whole consciousness being held in her hot, wet mouth. She worked against him, pulling one of his hands against her head so he could set a pace. He twined his fingers into her hair, strands twisted around his fingers. The world shrank down to just this room, just this girl, just this act. He was going to come, he realised with a rush of panic, Christ, not the suit, not her hair. “Betts, Betty, I’m close, so close…,” and he was there, rushing like a locomotive through the station and out the other side, shaking, groaning, spasming. She dealt with the problem with a swallow and a proud smile and the wipe of the back of her hand across her delicious, wicked mouth. Suddenly, without warning the lights in the auditorium went down and the booth was plunged into complete darkness. The show was starting. The opening credits rolled and Jug and Betty attempted to dress for a premiere in complete silence and total darkness. Once she began to giggle the whole process became impossible and Jug, peering through the projection hatch saw several audience members turn to look up curiously. Then there was a rattle at the door handle and it was pushing against the chair back. He could see that she was tugging at her lingerie but her dress seemed to be in place so he shoved aside the chair and opened the door to look into the angry face of, he guessed, the manager of the theatre. Betty swept past him and took the red faced man’s arm.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. My boyfriend used to be a projectionist and he just wanted to bring me to the room where the magic happens. It was so thrilling.” Jug spluttered with laughter. She was brazen. She’d called him her boyfriend.

“Sorry,” he muttered as he passed and followed her down the stairs to slip in at the rear of the auditorium. They found a couple of seats in the back row on one side. He watched his movie with a restricted view of the screen but a perfect and unimpeded view of Betty Cooper which seemed a fair exchange. She held his hand, tracing shapes on his palm and he smiled into her shining green eyes. When the curtain raised and the house lights went up they slipped out, before the applause had even ended, to wait for the others away from the throng. Archie and Veronica joined them first, V throwing her arms around Betty like they’d been sorority sisters rather than casual acquaintances. “I’m not going to ask where you two got to, because I don’t want to know. It’s enough to find you here together. Betty honey, do you need my mirror for your lipstick? You’re a teeny bit smudged.”

After they had met up with Kevin and Fangs and enjoyed a long, raucous dinner, Jug gave Archie his door keys and told him to expect him tomorrow and took off in an Uber with Betty. They sat up in her bed, drinking water to fend off hangovers and giggled about the theatre manager’s furious face. “I didn’t really think you’d be there tonight. I thought you’d give it a pretty hard pass. I mean, I hoped you’d go, obviously. No woman would wear a bustier unless she hoped someone would see it,” she admitted.

“I hoped too. Hence the suit.”

“Great suit. I like you in it almost as much as I like you out of it. But seriously, that’s pretty huge, to voluntarily go to something like that.”

“Yeah, I’m doing pretty well I think. Still some residual weirdness. I know intellectually that mental pain and physical pain are both real but I still feel weak because mine is mental. And somehow I got hooked into the idea that pain the only thing a man ought to be able to feel, not love or joy or compassion. Like, my dad, when he got put away, he arranged for his gang to take care of me, which meant initiate me. The last stage is that the guys take turns to beat you to a pulp. That’s their love language, forget acts of service or quality time. It’s brass knuckles all the way. But when all you are allowed to feel is hurt then that’s what you get instead of bonding. Fucked up, right?”

“Pretty fucked up. You’re kind of a miracle really. To come from that and yet decide to be this sensitive, creative intellectual. No wonder there are a few scars. But they’re good scars. I like them.”

“I suppose that some days I just don’t know if I’ll ever be right, whole.”

“I’ve got a pet theory. I think that if we were all whole, completely well, that we’d all be the same. It’s our damage that makes us unique. And if we were all the same we’d never fall in love would we? How could you fall passionately in love with someone exactly like yourself? It’d just be like Narcissus looking at his own reflection. So it’s not really the perfect parts of each other that we love, it’s the damaged parts where we can help or heal or just acknowledge the pain. I’m rambling.”

“I like it. It makes sense. I guess I always think of you as being this paragon of mental health.”

“Oh you should hear my sessions with my supervisor. It’s a car crash some weeks. It’s not that I don’t have issues. It’s just about trying to deal with your shit before it sabotages you. ”

“I know you’re right. But I’d probably agree with anything you said naked in bed next to me. I think I’m almost ready to agree with you again. Come here.”

One Sunday afternoon a month later they were sitting on the lawn chairs in her yard, Caramel winding round his feet. They had discussed this new relationship intellectually as befitted a psychotherapist and her beau. They talked sensibly about giving each other space, not rushing anything, but whenever it was time for him to go home he just wanted to stay. When she came to his house he wouldn’t let her take her toothbrush with her when she went to work. “You’ll just have to come back for it” he said, holding it above her head. He offered her his spare room to use as a study and she said she’d think about it but when she left he moved out the bed and bought another desk. When he made love to her he found himself wanting to tell her that he loved her. He’d never said it to a girl, only to JB and to Archie on his wedding day. He wanted to say it to her. He thought she wanted to say it to him, he’d heard her catch the words in her throat, being cautious, taking care, remembering Trula's ill fated tattoo. Now the marmalade cat jumped onto his lap and pushed his warm little head against his chest. He said, without even forming the conscious thought, “Caramel would like my house. Bring him to live with me.”

“Me too or just my cat?” she laughed.

“I love you both. Both come,” He realised what he had said at the same moment that she did and they gaped at each other. He understood suddenly both the power of the words and how much he had needed to say them. In that moment he didn’t even care if she was going to say it back. He just began to repeat it like a mantra, feeling freer than he ever had. “I love you Betty Cooper, I love you, I love you, I love you, so much.”

“Jughead Jones, I love you.” Her smile was luminous. They fell into each other’s arms, forgetting about Caramel and making him streak away from their crushing bodies as they kissed and cried and giggled together.

She buckled her seatbelt and pulled out of the hospital parking lot with a quick reassuring smile at him. “You OK? That was pretty intense.”

“Yeah, I’m good. Archie’s a mess.”

“I know, right. Veronica’s the one who just went through a battle and he’s the one in pieces. She’s so put together. Momma Lodge Andrews. Fierce.”

“She’s incredible. And Inés! So beautiful. When Archie and I went for coffee he just kept saying that he loves them both so much that he feels like he can’t contain it all, he’s being stretched like a balloon by it. And my God he can cry. He must have used a whole box of Kleenex while I was talking to him.”

“Oh I am here for all that emotional intelligence and masculine bonding. It’s sickeningly healthy and well-adjusted. I’m so glad they moved out here. It’s good for you two to be together.”

“I know right? So is V OK? Was it rough?”

“She said she can’t even remember the pain. That seems like a sneaky trick for mother nature to play on the sisterhood.”

“The way Archie told it I imagined it was like she was being eaten by a shark or something. He was straight out of Apocalypse Now… ‘the horror, the horror.’”

There was a silence. She didn’t rush to fill it. He loved that she always gave him space to search for the words, understood that when it mattered most he needed to redraft in his head. “Will it be like that for us?” he said at last.

“Do you want that?” she asked, glancing over at him.

“Don’t you?”

“Yes, but you’re enough for me Jug. You and my work are enough. I’d like my own little Inés, sure, but if it’s not for us then that’s OK too.”

“I want it. I want it so much Betts. With you. But the pain? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“It’s a good trade Jug. Some pain for all that joy. Let’s get home and make it happen.” She grinned at him and he put his hand on her thigh and it felt like a promise of forever.


End file.
